The Dark In A Man

Joel did up his zipper as he made his way from the urinal to the bland, white sink. He splashed water over his face and washed his hands, then studied himself in the mirror. He was excited, that was for sure, and he could see it on his own face. But then again, after all these assignments of gang members and drug dealers, he was waiting for a slightly more dangerous opponent, say: an internationally wanted terrorist? Joel was a renowned bounty-hunter, but not your average bounty-hunter by any means. Dishonourably discharged from the SAS at the age of 28, Joel Russala was a deadly soldier, most at home in physical combat; his technique derived from Brazilian Ju-Jitsu. He couldn’t really remember how he got into the mercenary business, but he was good, earning tens of thousands of pounds for each target captured (or more entertainingly, killed). He flattened down his smooth, blonde hair, and then winked an emerald green eye at himself.

Joel strutted out from the toilets and made his way over to the bar in the left corner of the club. His current location was at the Pride nightclub in London, a very popular location, making his job even harder if the objective became a shoot-out. Joel took a stool, and gave a quick wave at the waitress. The woman’s red hair flicked across her face as she leaned against the counter, “And what can I get you, honey?” she asked, in a very flirtatious manner. “A Sazerac, thank you darling” Joel winked back. The red-head smiled and went off to prepare the drink. Joel chuckled to himself, “Always the reds!” he muttered. The glass doors at the entrance swung open, and a man clad in a smart black suit, followed by two other, heftier men, who were probably bodyguards. Joel took a deep breath, ‘Professor’ Ronald Diweȅd, mastermind behind the ‘Flashfire’ terrorist group. The professor walked over to the bar, taking the vacant seat next to Joel, and his henchmen headed over to a small table. They were acting nonchalant, but it was obvious they were keeping an eye on him.

The red-head cleared her throat to grab Joel’s attention, and then pushed his drink towards him. He picked it up and took a sip, then noticed a piece of paper were the glass sat. The paper had a number had a number written on it, no doubt the tasty looking red’s phone number. He shook his head and prepared to get into the game, his favourite game, the one where he plays mind games with his prey. “I noticed the two beefy men escorting you into the room just now,” Joel said, slyly, “you must be very important”. Ronald turned his head to look at him, then glanced at the two guys on the table. “Who, them?” Ronald laughed. “They couldn’t tell a dragon fruit from a komodo dragon, but they make good bodyguards. Jonathan Price”, he raised a hand to shake. A fake name, typical. Two can play that game.. Joel took his hand and shook it firmly “Dean Wright”. “Nice grip” the professor said, impressed. “Thank you, of course a highly statured individual such as you would know how to judge a man quickly. After all, he may not be around for long”. The colour vanished from Ronald’s face, so much so Joel wanted to burst out with laughter. “Indeed”, Ronald replied, “excuse me for a moment...” He walked over to the table where the men were sat. “Shit!” Joel muttered, as he reached for the fire alarm button and pressed it. Bells rang out, and people screamed as they dashed for the exit. He then dived for the mixing machine, and put on one of his favourite songs: ‘It’s All Over’ by Three Days Grace. Might as well do it style Joel shrugged.

The screaming stopped and was replaced with the sounds of guns being cocked. He pulled out a 45 calibre FN FNP 45 from his blazer pocket, loaded it, and then cocked it. He waved a hand over the top of the machine only to have 5 rounds barely miss it. Joel studied the holes in the wall. 45 calibre pistol, same as him and by the sound of the fire, the guns were semi-automatic. An idea appeared in his head. Joel wiped his hands across the lighting controls, and the room flashed black and white continuously. He stood up and took two shots, both hitting one of the henchmen in the heart and throat. Joel hit the deck and smirked as the man choked and coughed as the life drained from him. The other two continued to fire, but then Joel realised that only one gun was firing, no doubt Diweȅd was cowering away. He stood up and nailed two more rounds into the other man’s head.

They had no idea what they were in for. Ronald came from the corner with a knife, a sharp kitchen knife probably from the bar. He lunged at Joel and breathed furiously. The bounty-hunter batted his arm down without effort, and then shoved him away, followed by a quick taunt. The terrorist swiped furiously, and then threw the knife at Joel. It landed, quite conveniently, handle first in Joel’s hand. He laughed loudly, then dropped the knife and stretched his knuckles. Ronald swung a hook, but was intercepted by Joel jamming his arms between his shoulder and bicep. As the aggressor fell back stunned, Joel twisted his arm and pulled him into a chicken wing, which then bridged to a sleeper hold. Ronald twisted his head violently to escape. A loud, brutal snapping sound came from the man’s neck, and Joel loosened his grip. He frowned, and then sighed. How was he going to explain this to MI6? Ronald killed himself by trying to escape a sleeper hold. There was no way they’d believe that. The music stopped and Joel heard sirens. It was over.